dollarshort (retired)

All Day I faced the Barren Waste...

I'm certain to send my parents further into depression when they see this post, but I just had to write about the passing of my first pet, Lolly. She was a thirteen year-old Mitred Conure who had been with my family since I was 13 years old. Her death was incredibly sudden and came about due to kidney failure. As soon as my mom detected that something was amiss, she took her to an avian emergency room. The condition she had gave her a 20% chance of survival and the doctor said that if she made it through the night, she would have a pretty good chance of survival. Unfortunately, a little before 4 am this morning, she passed away.

When my parents first brought Lolly home, I was extremely upset since I had never had a pet and didn't want one for the sole reason that I never wanted to see them die. The first time I saw her, I was afraid to touch her, so I wrapped my hand in a red sweatshirt and put it in her cage. Of course, she came after me out of fear, but I quickly learned the right ways to give her affection -- she especially liked it when I would preen her pin feathers.

Lolly was a part of her family and I'll never be able to hear her favorite songs again without feeling sad. She'd sing along with Sharon, Lois, and Bram's Skinnamarink and The Sons of the Pioneer's Cool Water. I'm certain that my father will be playing these songs in a loop since, like me, we like making ourselves depressed. Why else would I be writing this post?

One of my favorite memories of Lolly occurred when my best friend Monica was visiting after school one day. We were both in 8th grade and she was incredibly scared of Lolly. As I was holding Lolly to show Monica that she wasn't a threat, Lolly jumped on Monica's back and started climbing her head and grabbing at her hair. As Monica ran around screaming, I just laughed. I think Lolly was laughing too.

Lolly's laugh was always Ben's favorite thing about Lolly. I swear she had the most cutting sense of humor.

Anyway, here's to Lolly. I've been incredibly sad today -- my entire family has been crying and feeling like we were responsible for her early demise. As Ben and I begin looking for our first pet together (a dog), I worry that one day we'll have to say goodbye to another pet.

I can only say that we wouldn't be sad unless these animals made our lives happier when they were around.

Letter to Santa

This morning, from my dad, I received a scanned copy of one of my old letters to Santa -- this one being from 1981 -- from when I was four years old.

With the exception of the ironing board (I'm a complete slob), I would have to say that my gift requests are pretty indicative of the person I was to become. I particularly like the fact that I was a four year-old girl asking for a computer in 1981. The Tinker Toys became a childhood staple for me and, of course, I have the requisite Disneyana represented.

Better left unsaid.

I Remember Patty over at The Morning News.

Because one can never seem too psychotic.

They wore sparkles.

Children take most everything literally.

Even with my above-average intelligence¹, I was no exception.

In third grade, after becoming acquainted with the Reader's Digest standards songbook, I became captivated by song.

I sang the old favorites -- Stardust, Moonglow, Rum and Coca-Cola.

I also sang loudly, poorly and painfully high.

Still, I wasn't a realist and despite my shortcomings, my desire to become a singer intensified with each and every viewing of that showcase of talent, Star Search.

Sure, you may scoff at those little Britneys, LeAnns, Christinas -- the kids who belt out painfully bad (but loud) songs through their lock-jaw smiles.

To me, Ed McMahon's jewel had all the glamour, excitement, and suspense that was missing from my nine year-old life.

I wanted to be a part of that excitement.

So, each day after school I would head to the downstairs bathroom (for the great acoustics and privacy, of course) with my songbook and tape recorder in tow. Into the microphone I would belt out show-stoppers in the manner fitting the brightest star on the Search.

My repertoire was vast -- I had the torch songs and the ballads, the seasonal songs and the crowd-pleasers. Still, I needed a gem of a song to catapult me to the top.

One song stood out: New York, New York.

"These vagabond shoes
are leaving the way.
I'm going to make a start of it
In old New York."

Yeah, I know what you're thinking: Those aren't the lyrics.

It didn't matter, technicalities such as lyrics and tone stood in the way of my act. Instead, I focussed on the important things -- like designing my costume.

It was to be a leotard -- a tuxedo-stylized leotard. Blue and red, with sequins on the lapels.

I would wear tap shoes, though I didn't know how to tap dance.

And, of course, the top hat was optional -- perhaps I'd wear it in the semi-finals.

Now, here comes the "children take most everything literally" part.

My parents actually told me that I was going to be on Star Search.

They (and I think it may have just been my dad) said something like, "get your act together and we'll get you on the show."

Now, they knew I'd never be on that show. For one thing, they could hear. And no matter how much my mother loved me, the sounds emanating from my mouth no doubt sounded similar to that of the wails of an injured poodle.

Why did they say it?

I'd blame boredom, and a less-than-developed sense of understanding of their child's mind and her inability to detect sarcasm. ²

But I digress.

Say you are a child -- a particularly geeky child with few friends -- and you've just been told you're going to be on Star Search. What would be the first thing you would do?

That's right. Tell everyone in your class the good news.

I believe I don't have to detail their reactions. Needless to say, they laughed my dreams right out of me.

With my Star Search aspirations and assumed lies, I became one of those detestable elementary school figures: the liar.

The moral of the story? Kids who "lie" may simply be ill-informed.

The sight of Ed McMahon and the sound of New York, New York still sends shivers down my pines.

---

¹ No, really.

² Because my parents do read dollarshort.org and because I will be seeing them in two days, I should point out that although my parents did have a fun-loving mean-streak, they did sincerely encourage my other activities -- including the piano and art. Standard disclaimer: my parents aren't bad people.

Please don't let me be alone.

Last week, as workers tore up and re-paved the street in front of our apartment, I caught a whiff of the smell of tar.

Instantly, I was brought back to elementary school -- a simpler time, when, fun could be measured in toxicity.

The memory?

On especially hot Los Angeles days, parts of my school's roof would liquefy and drip off the sides of the building.

As it fell and collected on the ground, all of us kids would rush to grab the molten gobs of fun. I recall pushing and yelling as we all tried to collect the most tar.

Fresh from the ground, it would be pliable enough to shape into little balls and other non-recognizable shapes. And, as a sign of accomplishment, we would rest the little tar trophies in the pencil groove of our desks.

Knowing children, I'm sure none of us washed our hands before eating our tuna-fish sandwiches and Lunchables. And of course, because children are utterly bizarre, I'm quite sure that some of my peers couldn't resist putting the tar in their mouths.

Such a strange memory.

But considering what a hit "slime" was at my school, it is no wonder that we took great pride in the natural wonder that dripped from the roofs.

The other day I asked Ben if he and his classmates collected tar like my Southern California comrades and I.

His response?

"Um, no."

What about you? Did you play with tar?

Do not try this at home.

I wouldn't actually say I'm a pyromaniac but, frankly, I like to melt things.

This realization was sparked while I sat in front of our oven (or rather, fire pit) while it was self-cleaning.

For those of you not in the domestic know, self-cleaning ovens clean by incinerating grime and grease at temperatures reaching 1,000 degrees.

Now, I may like to see things melt, but I certainly don't like seeing houses catch on fire. So, I made sure that there were no loose papers or dish clothes around the vicinity of the oven while it cleaned.

That's how an adult thinks.

A child on the other hand would probably want to see just how long it actually takes before something catches on fire.

All in the name of curiosity, I say.

Curiosity inspires children to do near-evil things.

For example, when I was eight or nine, my dad received a package in the mail containing floppy disks -- the 5 1/4 size ones. On the package, there was a warning that said:

"KEEP AWAY FROM MAGNETS!"

Guess how long it took me to get my magnets from my science kit?

I was curious. I wanted answers.

Would they explode?

Would they melt?

Would they actually stop working?

Now, try to imagine the look of defeat and disappointment on my face when -- after rubbing a super-magnet along the stiff manila envelope -- nothing happened.

But back to the oven and my love of melting.

Like most children, I never played with my toys in exactly the correct manner prescribed by the manufacturers. I'm talking about more subtle variations of play -- I didn't, for example, play catch with my hula hoop.

(I did make a hoop skirt with it, but that's another story)

Many of my playtime variations involved heat or fire. Most of the time, art entered the mix.

Two examples which immediately pop into my mind involve my Lite Brite and, on sick days, my vaporizer.

I loved my Lite Brite and played with it in a parental-acceptable manner for many many years. But, sometimes when my family wasn't around, I would exploit the toy's light bulb for its powers to melt.

I would place the little plastic colored Lite Brite pegs on the surface of the light bulb and when they were hot enough, I would stretch them out and shape them into little animals and figures.

Perhaps I missed my calling as a glass blower.

The vaporizer was used in a similar manner. I would use the steam to melt little piles of crayon shavings. The purpose? To melt little piles of crayon shavings.

Of course, children usually overestimate their ability to carry off their plans or activities on the sly. When they get caught for using their imagination (along with fire, heat or steam), they are scolded for their stupidity or for the damage they caused/might have caused.

But really, they're just learning about cause and effect and it's part of the development process.

Yeah, tell me that when I have my own kids and I catch one of them trying to put a fork in a electrical socket.

Olive oil, Motor Oil? What's the difference?

From the unlikeliest of sources came an olfactory blast from the past.

As I was standing in the kitchen -- looking for something to eat in our pantry -- I noticed the little container of automobile touch-up paint that ben had picked it from our Honda dealership to repair a scratch made by a brush with a wayward bumper (don't ask).

Now, you should know that I take every opportunity to demonstrate my above-average intelligence. So, it should come to no surprise that within moments of spying that bottle I was already unscrewing the cap and putting the thing up to my nose.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not one of those glue-sniffing kids. And, believe me, I certainly don't go on any toxic joyrides.

Something just compelled me to sniff the darn thing.

My mom probably expects this from me. Right now she's saying "That Mena always has to smell everything -- she's done it since she was a baby."

It's like I'm a damn bloodhound or something.

Within a millisecond of the sniff I was a kid back in Los Angeles -- sitting in the garage with my grandfather.

My grandfather has always been an artist -- he's where I got my love of creative arts.

His actual profession was something quite different -- he was an auto-mechanic.

So now, let's just mix an auto-mechanic's resources (heavily toxic car paint) with a love of painting and you'll get a recipe for some serious noxious fumes. Now add one more thing to the mix: Extra-large canvases and a desire to paint like Jackson Pollock.

He really did a great job on those canvases -- his experiments with modern art and the medium of carcinogenic paint were quite revolutionary for our house. Unfortunately, we were all so scared of getting sick from the works that they ended up hanging in the garage.

Oh the sweet smell of art!

It should come as no surprise that most paints now give me hives and a runny nose.

I think I should be happy I didn't sprout a third eye.

On the salad bus of Dallas.

Edgar Allan Poe was born on this day 193 years ago.

The mention of Poe always brings to mind my pathetic foray into the world of junior high speech competitions.

When I was in thirteen and in the eighth grade, I fancied myself a public speaker. I was loud and therefore, I assumed, an asset to my tiny parochial school's speech team.

Of course, anyone can be loud. But not everyone can be expressive, compelling and accurate.

I wasn't any of those things.

Regardless, I signed-up to participate in a speech meet that was to be held at a high school in the next county over. Perhaps, by the time of the meet, I would have acquired the skills needed to kick some oral interpretation butt.

And what did I pick to recite? Edgar Allan Poe's, The Raven.

In addition to not being expressive, compelling nor accurate, I was also lazy -- so lazy that I waited until the night before the tournament to start memorizing the eighteen-stanza poem.

This is all a recipe for a predictable eighth grade disaster, so I think I can refrain from describing all the humiliating details.

A quick summary involves forgotten words, panicked revisions of a 150 year-old poem and a very traumatized kid sitting in the losers room watching the other kids perform the routines that brought them to the semi-finals.

Luckily, an original expository speech about baseball cards -- complete with poster board visual aids -- given by a kid from another school made me forget about my own personal humiliation.

This kid was bad -- perhaps not as bad as me for he at least took the time to memorize his material. But my gosh, he was dull -- an example of what a public speaker shouldn't be.

I'm sure that during the carpool ride home, I took great delight in impersonating this kid's performance. After all, humor at another kid's expense is always the best way to get a mini-van of thirteen year-olds laughing.

And, I like to think that it was this boy's performance which kept me from ever participating in a speech meet again.

Imagine the laugh I had when, five years later, I discovered just who this pathetic kid really was.

It was none other than my own Ben.

Of course, since he does most everything else perfectly, I take great pleasure in bringing up this story and reminding him how much of an impression he made on me -- all those years before we'd actually meet.

Who loves Mena?

I received a call from my mother last night.

Mena: Hello?

Mom: I love that picture of you in the yellow dress!

Mena: What picture? (I have no clue)

Mom: The one on your site -- the one where you're wearing the 18th-Century dress.

Mena: Oh...That one.

Now, I've always assumed that my parents already knew about and read the site. It doesn't take much sleuthing around the Internet to find it. Do a Google search for "Mena" and dollarshort.org returns as the number one result.

But, it turns out that my mom hadn't discovered the site before last night and when she did see it, she just had to call up and say how cute she thought the photo on my "about" page was.

And yes, that is my face superimposed on the clipart.

So my mom calls me today from her work. It turns out that she spent some time reading dollarshort and now had some concerns.

There aren't enough pictures and stories about the Aug-man.
I've told you before -- Augie is her favorite and, for some reason, she probably thinks Augie would be hurt if he knew I talked about Annie as much as I do.

Remedy: Here you go, mom. (1) (2)

I make them look cruel.
Personally, I think the whole Brother Larry thing is funny. It gave me personality.

I make it seem like she didn't love me
Now, this is certainly not true. As I told her over the phone today, I know she loves me and I never have posted anything to the contrary. She was offended that I posted the audio interview where I can't get an "I love you" out of her.

She claims that interview never occurred -- despite actual evidence to the contrary. She even implied that I somehow edited her out of the tape.

I did remind her that the point of that post was to show how annoying I was and not to show that she never said "I love you."

Remedy: And so, I must point out that she smothered me with love. She told me quite often that she loved me and even put up with my insecurity antics.

"Who do you love more? Me or Daddy?" was a constant question.

"Raise your hand if you love Mena," was a command that I would issue at the dinner table. And, believe me, I asked that darn question often.

And, of course, my mother's hand always went up enthusiastically.

Game Over.

Megan writes a great anecdote about her mother's very non-motherly habit:

Around lunchtime my mother would pick me up, take me out to lunch in the local mall food court, then drag me down to the end of the mall where Aladdin's Castle, video game haven, stood, nearly invisible. She would then proceed to play Pac-man, Miss Pac-man, Klax, Joust and anything of the not-shooter not-quite-violent genre. She kicked ass. I kid you not. Held top scores all the time...

Which, of course, reminds me of a certain video-game related memory.

When I was eleven or twelve, my parents either bought or were given a full-size Super Pac-man arcade consule from my dad's work. Kept in our garage, the big box of fun was probably the only reason I had any friends.

Before you start asking "what sort of spoiled child gets their own arcade game," let me just emphasize that I was no Ricky Stratton.

The purchase of the machine was some sort of fluke that, to this day, seems like a weird non-memory. I didn't have a Nintendo but instead relied on PC games for entertainment. And, for the most part, these games were usually the educational ones that either my dad got from work (Mavis Beacon, Life & Death, Chessmaster) or were a staple in every classroom (Carmen San Diego, Oregon Trail, Lemonade Stand).

Hours were spent in our cold garage as I mastered the moves that would eventually allow me to reach level eleven (of sixteen, I belive).

But alas, I never reached the final level because my parents sold the machine before our move to Northern Californa.

And, you know what's funny? To this day, I can actually remember the exact path and the needed hand motions that I would use on each level.

Now that's certainly a useful bit of information in my repository of knowledge.